“I hadda want to go to sea. Coulda stayed right in New York and fit with them coves what come up to the woods. Course, they didn’t fair so good with the Brits what come down from Canada, I reckon, an’ I coulda been sent out to Fort Detroit with the army. Likely woulda got meself kilt out there. Them coves got so bad beat they wasn’t but a couple lived to tell the tale, an’ from what I heard, they run away. Leastaways, here we fit honest an’ straight, an’ we still breathin’…”
“Shut up, Massey. You got no call to complain. You wasn’t hurt that I kin see an’ you’re still alive. Lookee yonder at young Tate; he ain’t said a damn word an’ ain’t got but one arm thanks to them damn Brits, an’ what’s he gonna do, a topman what’s missin’ a arm.” Johnson paused for breath, and Jack Clements cast a glance at the young topman with ‘but one arm’ to see how he was taking his shipmate’s remarks. Tate stared straight ahead, his eyes unfocused. It didn’t appear that he even heard them. Drawn deep within himself, Jake was barely aware of their surroundings.
Johnson continued, “We’re all pretty lucky, even Jake. I heard Mister Blanchard tellin’ one of the Brits that more ‘en a hunnert Chesapeakes got kilt in the fightin’ an’ more died afore we got to Halifax. An’ we left nigh on to fifty at the hospital. So I figger them poor coves ain’t got nothin’ to look forward to; we’re still alive, an’ gonna get outta here sooner or later. An’ we ain’t goin’ back on that damn jinx ship. I didn’t believe all them tales ‘til now, but looks like they was righty-oh. We had ourselves a good crew, an’ as fine a cap’n what ever sailed, fought less’n fifteen minutes, an’ here we sit in a Brit prison like common thieves or somethin’.”
“They don’t think of us as common thieves, Sam. And they get treated a damn sight worse’n us, I heard tell. ‘sides, we might get ourselves exchanged for some Brit coves they got in the United States. Thief ain’t gonna get exchanged, but prisoners of war likely will.” Clements was standing, straining to see out the window which was somewhat over his head. The light was fading quickly now and, as the gloom of the small cell deepened, the men lapsed into silence.
By early July, the routine had become ingrained and the prisoners were now allowed to wander around the yard within the high palisades and the stone walls topped with shards of glass, giving them the opportunity check on their mates and get the lay of the island prison. Most had accepted their fate and waited to see which of their mates would be sent over from the hospital – and which would be sent to Deadman’s Island and an unmarked grave in that aptly named pile of dirt and rock in the little cove immediately to the south of Melville Island.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Another day or two, three at most and we should be seein’ the Massachusetts coast, less’n we see one o’ them Brit blockaders. Reckon we’d be sunk then; not much we could do ‘bout it if’n they chose to fight us.” Dobson looked aloft as he spoke to the third mate, taking in the General’s fished foremast and the bowsprit with its jury rig holding it together.
“Our prizes would surely be easy pickin’s ‘s’well for ‘em; jury rigged an’ with short crews trying to sail ‘em and hold ‘em together ‘til we get back to Salem. I don’t think them Brits locked up below would be likely to help out much, should we be boarded,” Isaac agreed with a smile. “Let’s just hope this breeze holds nice an’ easy from the sou’west an’ keep the men alert – the ones standing lookout aloft.”
After spending two full days hove to, mending spars and replacing sails holed in the taking of the two prizes off Bermuda, knotting and splicing the rigging, the small flotilla got under way in calm seas and an easy sou’west breeze. The eight Americans and twelve British seaman killed in the action had been buried together shortly after the battle and a half dozen General Washingtons, three British sailors, and one officer were resting in a make-shift hospital under the privateer’s fo’c’sle.
Three days into making their westing, one of their prizes, a schooner, disappeared during the night and the privateer and the prize sloop hove to to wait what turned out to be half a day for the schooner to catch up; the repaired main topmast had failed and the prize crew spent an uneasy night drifting and jury-rigging a spare main boom to replace it. Otherwise, their passage had been, so far, unremarkable. And all hands fervently hoped it would continue that way, all the way into Salem Harbor, two or three days distant.
“I’ll tell you this, Dobson,” said Isaac while the two watched the Bermuda sloop and the schooner following along, one on either quarter of the General Washington, like obedient children, “I don’t reckon this comes close to evenin’ up the score for what happened to the Chesapeake. Half a hundred Brit sailors, a few officers, and a couple of British privateers – not even Royal Navy – don’t signify on that ‘count. I heard before we left Salem from some coves off’n Constitution that one and maybe more of my old shipmates was on Chesapeake; I collect from all the accounts of the action I heard, that they either got ‘emselves kilt in the fight, or lacking that, they’ve got locked up in someplace called Melville Island up in Halifax. Hard to fathom that I’ll likely never see ‘em again.”
“Aye, Isaac, I can un’erstand that. Lost a passel o’ my own friends over the year an’ more o’ this damn war. Ain’t nothin’ for it, though. You just hope the ones you ain’t sure of ’re still upright somewhere, sailin’ or yarnin’ in some tavern, an’ that they’ll turn up someday. I’d reckon you don’t know whether your friends was kilt or no, or even if they was on the frigate. They could still be holed up somewhere on another ship, blocked into a harbor by the damn Brits and wonderin’ what became of you.”
“Well, that’s something, I guess. Just have to wait and see what…”
“Sail… sail fine on the larboard bow. Hull down, she is, and ‘pears to be but one. Showin’ tops’ls and t’gallants that I kin see.”
Once again, the lookout’s cry stopped all human motion on the brig; O’Mara, who had the watch, leaped into the rigging with a glass, and as he did so, yelled at the messenger to “Fetch the cap’n, quick as ever you can.” Biggs glanced at their prizes to see if by chance they had seen the sails also; all appeared serene from what he could see and, he guessed correctly, that Captain Rogers would be taking action to deal with this most unwelcome visitor.
“Mister Coffin, Mister Biggs, we’ll bear off a point, if you please, and smartly. Until Mister O’Mara returns with his report, I’ll be taking no chances.”
The two mates moved men to sail-handling positions and the brig headed off, making her course nearly north and, hopefully, away from the stranger. By the time the lines were again coiled down and the ship full and by on her new course, the second jumped off the bulwark and stepped to the captain’s side, his long glass still slung by its leather strap from his shoulder.
“I’d stake my life on that bein’ a Crowninshield vessel, Cap’n. In fact, I’d bet a fair piece o’ change that she’s the Henry, the brig Mister Crowninshield favors for his own use. Armed with eight six-pounders and a pair of eighteen-pounder carronades, she is – or was when last I seen her. She ain’t showin’ no flag that I could make out from aloft, but the way she carries her fore tops’l and jibs is – well, they just ain’t any others I ever saw what look like that.”
“Mister O’Mara, you bring most welcome news and pray you are right in your assessment of that vessel, as you are indeed betting your life and, I might add, all of ours on it. None-the-less, we shall continue on this course until we are sure. Make a signal to Mister Hardy and Mister Dickerson to bear off and stay close, if you please. We shall watch, and wait.”
“Mister Biggs?” The voice behind Isaac was quiet – almost a whisper – and filled with concern and without turning he knew at once to whom it belonged.
“Yes, Dunn. Everything all right with our passengers?” Butterfingers had been given the chore of tending to the British captives confined below.
“Yes sir…that is, I reckon it is, sir. I just come from forward and looks to me like Sm
ith ain’t doin’ so good. Rantin’ an’ ravin’ he is and thrashin’ around something fierce. Sweatin’ like a horse on top of it. Could you come an’ have a look, sir?” The concern in Dunn’s voice caused Isaac to turn and look hard into the seaman’s eyes; the big man’s whole posture, from the look in his eyes to the wringing of his great hands, and the repeated licking of his lips, mostly hidden behind the bushy brown beard, spoke of a genuine fear about his shipmate. Without further words, Biggs started forward to the improvised hospital where Tight-Fisted Smith, cruelly hurt in the action, still remained along with the other sailors.
As they neared the scuttle, open and with a wind sail rigged for ventilation, both men could hear someone crying out and making a host of unintelligible sounds, interspersed with a string of curses. Biggs dropped down the scuttle and was greeted first by an unpleasant pungent odor – the smell of decay and mortification – and then, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, by the sight of Smith. The topman was half in and half out of his hammock, his face flushed and glistening with sweat in spite of the comfortable temperature, and the bandages had been ripped off his chest. The deep gash which showed there was grisly, and the raised lump along side the wound where the six inch splinter still remained was red and angry. Yellowish fluid oozed from the wound, and from the red streaks radiating across Smith’s chest, it was obvious even to Isaac, that here was putrefaction of major proportion. Captain Rogers had not dared remove the splinter with the limited implements available to him and his limited skills as a surgeon. It was obvious that the morbidity from the wood lodged in his chest was growing worse and if left untreated would likely kill Smith before the brig reached Salem.
“Fetch Cap’n Rogers, Dunn. Quick as you can. I’ll stay here with Smith.” Biggs eased the topman’s contorted form back into the hammock and spoke quietly to him while he found a cloth in a bucket of tepid, but fresh water. He wrung out the cloth and laid it gently on Smith’s forehead, then wiped it down the man’s face cooling his fever and easing his discomfort. Smith’s eyes fluttered and opened, fixing on Isaac’s face. A spark of recognition was there and Isaac continued speaking soothingly to his friend. As fast as Isaac wiped away the sweat it would re-appear and he noted that his friend’s eyes had sunk into his head and were bloodshot, ringed with dark smudges. He rinsed the rag in the bucket and turned back to the patient as the lanky form of Captain Rogers materialized on the ladder.
“What’s the problem, Mister Biggs. Dunn said something about one of the topmen. I can’t be spending my time down here; we got a situation topside what’s gonna need my attention sooner than later, I’m thinkin’.” Rogers covered the deck between the ladder and Smith’s hammock in one stride and looked at the man’s face. After a moment, his gaze shifted to the suppurating, fetid wound.
“I was afraid of this. Not takin that splinter out’s what’s responsible for the wound becomin’ putrid like it is. I ain’t sure I can get it out now, but maybe if I open this up some, I can relieve some of the pressure and let out some o’ that pus. I reckon a medico would want to bleed him, too.” Rogers’ voice was barely audible; he was talking mainly to himself, hearing how his diagnosis and plan of attack sounded. He stood and motioned to his third mate.
“I fear we may not be able to stop this spreadin’ fester. You can see how the morbidity’s spreadin’ down his belly and up toward his neck. Them red lines there. That splinter must have been…” His ruminations to Isaac were cut off by a renewed outburst and thrashing from Smith. Rogers looked at the sailor and, with a shake of his head, made up his mind.
“Mister Biggs, get him onto those sea chests and tie him down. Wouldn’t do to have him bouncing around while I’m trying open that thing up. I’ll be back quick as ever I can.” With that, the captain turned and ran up the ladder.
When he returned, he bore the medical box. His brow was furrowed and his eyes had a worried cast to them. Isaac assumed the captain’s concern was over Smith’s condition; he was only partly right.
“That ship yonder has born off and appears to be makin’ for us. I got to get this done quick and you’ll have to help me.” He opened the large box and pulled out a stoppered glass bottle, about half of which he poured into Smith’s mouth. He stepped back and looked around. “Where’s Dunn?”
The big seaman appeared from the gloom, and said, “Here Cap’n.”
“All right, then. You and Mister Biggs’re gonna have to hold Smith down. I’ve given him as much laudanum as I dare, but it’ll be a bit afore it takes aholt of him.” He stepped back and, reaching into the medical box, produced a thin-bladed knife, which he tested on his thumb. The blade winked in the flickering light of a lantern Biggs had hung over the sea chests where the hapless sailor was stretched out.
“Make sure them bonds is tight and then get hold of him.” Rogers looked up at his third and the seaman and received a nod that they were ready. His hand hesitated a moment, then moved with a deceiving steadiness to the raised, angry welt on Smith’s chest. Carefully, he cut a long, deep incision down the length of the splinter, then around one end. The wounded sailor gasped as the knife cut into his flesh, then lapsed into silence – either passed out or in the drifting world of a laudanum-induced delirium.
Lifting the flap of skin he had created, Rogers peered into the wound. He straightened up, sighed, and again pressed the knife into the new wound. After cutting more, he again stooped and studied what he could see inside the cut. The smell newly emanating from the putrid wound was overpowering, but the captain ignored it and, continuing to stare into the opening in Smith’s chest, muttered under his breath.
“I can see that lump of wood in there plain as day. Haulin’ it outta o’ him ain’t gonna be easy. Likely tear up half his chest…nothing for it…” He straightened up and set down the knife, picking up a pair of long forceps from the box. Turning back to the patient, he was poised with the forceps to enter the wound when Smith suddenly and with unexpected strength, struggled to sit up, crying out in pain. His face, now pale even in the yellow light of the whale oil lantern, glistened with sweat. The sweat mixed with the blood from the incision and ran down his chest.
“Hold him steady, lads. This here’s the tricky part.” Rogers waited a moment for the man to quiet down and then carefully poked the forceps into the wound. His face showed the strain of concentration and responsibility. He muttered unintelligible sounds as, gently, he moved the tool around, feeling for the wood, his eyes closed. Suddenly they popped open and a look of satisfaction passed across his face; it was gone quick as the splash from a wave disappears on the sea.
“There it is…just gotta get this…blast it…steady lads…I can feel it now…there…got it…now just ease it out.” With his other hand, he lifted the flap of the wound and, working the splinter back and forth with the forceps, gradually moved it out of Smith’s chest. The sweat beaded on his brow, reflecting the light of the lantern like little jewels, as he concentrated on the task at hand. “Don’t break now…hold him still now, lads…just a little more…easy now…” Rogers, with the deft movement of the hand, pulled out the six-inch lump of yellow pine soaked with blood and pus. The wound bled freely now that the splinter was out. Rogers held the splinter up into the light for scrutiny.
“Don’t look like any broke off in there. Here, Isaac, pour some o’ that blue stuff outta the bottle yonder in there…that’s it. Right into the opening. Oughta clean it up some, maybe stop it from gettin’ any more putrid, though with that tops’l yard outta there, the mortification ought stop of its own.” The captain picked up a roll of bandage and began applying it to Smith’s chest, finishing with a round turn behind the sailor’s back to hold the dressing in place.
“Ain’t as pretty as a medico woulda done it, but it’ll have to do. Reckon I oughta bleed him some, but I’m damned if I know how much to let out. Hold that pan there, Dunn. That’s it, right under his arm.” The knife blade twinkled in the lantern light and a stream of blood spurted into the basin in Dunn’s
hand. After a moment, he put another piece of bandage on Smith’s arm and tied it securely. The flow of blood stopped and Dunn moved the pan away.
“Well, I can’t do better than that. It’s all I know to do. Get him back into the hammock and we’ll hope Smith is strong enough to survive both whatever mortification is left and my doctorin’. Gotta get back on deck. If that turns out to be a Brit, what we done here probably be for naught anyway, less’n they got a real surgeon aboard. Mister Biggs, I’ll be needin’ you on deck quick as you can get there. Smith’ll likely be quiet for a good while with that laudanum I gave him.” Rogers stepped onto the ladder and disappeared into the daylight on deck.
* * * * * *
The steady drizzle showed no sign of easing; indeed, if anything, it seemed to rain harder frequently, adding to the already dismal conditions at Melville Island Prison. Many of the men stood in small groups in the walled yard, blankets or scraps of canvas over their heads and shoulders, and chatted quietly about life as a prisoner with the long-term inmates of Melville, the French.
Most of them had been captured in the Indies and had been brought to Halifax, the only British base in North America, with their ships. The ships were condemned and sold; the seamen were condemned and locked up. Most had accepted their fate with calm resignation. Some tried to escape from the road-building or wood-cutting gangs that daily left the confines of the island. Most of them were quickly caught; some took longer, but any that survived the recapturing had only the Black Hole on water and ship’s biscuit to look forward to. They accepted the risk, but after they again saw the daylight from the Hole, the “runners” lost the right to join the work parties, and, with it, their source of income, regardless of how meager.
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 22